


Out of this World

by flybynight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Ridiculous, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 16:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3817477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybynight/pseuds/flybynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America convinces England to have some fun outside, with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of this World

**Author's Note:**

> Real summary: America and England have sex in a field. Essentially. 
> 
> After the rather serious subject matter of my last fic, I needed to detox. This is fairly short, completely silly, and pretty much the result of too much coffee and watching too many British television crime dramas. I apologize and beg no one to take this entirely seriously, because it... really wasn't meant to be. Also trying to get back into writing smut, because I do rather miss it!
> 
> Please enjoy! Or don't. ...I'm really sorry.

It was a warm, late summer afternoon, and America was feeling  _adventurous_. Between England's unexpected visit to his home (toting a bottle of good whiskey and a six pack of cheap, nasty beer-- "for you", he'd said smugly) and the fine, sultry weather, he couldn't help but be in good spirits.

There wasn't a lot to be happy about in their current political climate, which was one of the reasons England was even on the same continent just then. Meetings, meetings, always with the meetings. America tried as often as he could to not let that stop him from a good time. Or, at least give himself excuses to take "extended" vacations to places far away enough from the capital that he could pretend he couldn't hear the thunder and rumble of his government that was buried deep in his heart no matter where he was. Far away this time was only to one of his homes in Virginia, at the end of a pleasantly familiar country road from his childhood.

And sometimes England, good ol' England, came along for the ride willingly, as was the case now _._ Apparently he was trying to escape his troubles too, as America had been sure that after their fruitless world meeting in D.C. the day before, the other would have taken the first plane back just so he could lock himself inside one of his old castles for the next 500 years, the rest of Europe and the world be damned. He'd even asked the other to stay with him a night or two, since they were, well, sort of  _involved_  with each other, but England had insisted that he simply had too much work to do. That he was here instead was especially significant, which meant he was either a goddamned liar and he missed America something awful, or he was already drunk.

It was a mix of both, that time, as about a minute after he'd opened the door, England had been on him like a beast. Something like that. America could taste every shot he'd taken on his way over here. There weren't a lot of good bars in this area and he honestly had no idea how the other nation had managed to get here on his own in the first place, since he claimed to find all of his country's public transport to be 'utterly abysmal'.

"Drunk driving is a crime here, you know."

"You--! As if s'not in my country! Didn't drive _,_  I took one of those... whatsits... a taxi?"

Well, for once he was glad to be wrong. But he was gladder that England was here-- more glad? He wasn't sure of his english just then, but who cared, because  _England_ , England was in his arms and trying to kiss him to death and he was about ready to let him just so that he could die happy. That sort of thing was par for the course when you were stupidly in love with someone.

Eventually they fumbled their way inside. America took the shitty beer and started drinking so he could catch up a little, which was rather difficult considering his own tolerance and the quality of what he was guzzling, but he was the United States of America-- always striving for the seemingly impossible. England cradled his whiskey and muttered about good drinking glasses until he found America's collection of shot glasses from every state. In alphabetical order. The evening became even more interesting.

It was somewhere between Maine and Mississippi that England started stripping and demanded that he fuck him into the couch, but with how America was feeling, he wasn't sure if that would be enough right then. Well, excluding the sex part, he was always down for that. If England wanted to 'shag' then America wouldn't dare refuse him (even if the other hadn't used that word in particular, but thanks to re-watching his Austin Powers movie collection the weekend prior, it was all he heard, and his answering "yeah, baby, YEAH!" had been unfortunately lost on England. Oh well).

But no, these kinds of summer evenings were the sort for frivolity, for the kind of mischief and excitement that you could feel thrumming in your blood at the very thought of it. He followed him on the stripping bit, but as England squirmed pleasantly, naked in his arms, slurring insults and endearments alike, he pulled back from a particularly boozy kiss and grinned like an idiot. He'd just had a terrible, wonderful,  _terribly wonderful_  idea. 

"But let's do it outside."

England  _should_  have responded the same way America had a moment ago, but he just blinked at him like he'd just uttered something in Greek. He knew England understood some Greek, but that was neither here nor there.

"What?"

"Outside!" America repeated, and without warning, leaned in to nibble the other's ear delicately. "It's real nice out, don't you want to?"

"Oh  _yes_ ," England agreed magnanimously, "rolling about in the dirt and leaves and insects with my bits out on display sounds  _fantastic_."

He acted like he'd never done that before-- which was a lie. He also sounded way too sensible and coherent for being as smashed as he was, especially for a guy who'd tried to break into the Louvre to go streaking after a particularly bad bender with Prussia some several decades ago. France hadn't been happy, but obviously that had been part of the plan to begin with. Either way, America thought they should have at least gotten to New Hampshire or even Rhode Island with the shots, maybe then England wouldn't be acting like such a stick in the mud. Sticks and mud, all of which they could avoid if they played their cards right. But thankfully it only took a bit more of his kisses and charm (and a bit of whining, all right) before he gave in spectacularly, but argued that they at least needed a blanket or something.

They pulled their pants back on, and America grabbed a big quilt from one of the guest rooms on their way out the door.

Minutes later found them in the middle of a field. A wheat field, to be precise.

"The hell are we doing?" England asked, seeming to have sobered up even more on the short trek from his home. They could still the see the porch of his house from a distance. He probably wasn't enjoying having to push through the stalks, but America was practically giddy the closer they got to his intended destination.

They came to an open space, circular, the stalks flattened neatly beneath their feet. Just as it was supposed to be. America walked right to the center and threw down the blanket.

"I'm about to rock your world, that's what!" he finally responded, with a rather obscene hip thrust. It really was a perfect evening, what with the beautiful backdrop of the setting sun, the pretty orange and pink glow illuminating England's lovely 'are you fucking kidding me' expression.

"Is this a crop circle?! You're seriously--"

"I saw it in a movie once and I've been wanting to do it for like, years!"

"This is-- this is how people get murdered. There's not some crazy farmer running about with a shotgun, is there?"

" _I_ own this property!"

He made a convincing argument, and anyway, neither of them were wearing shirts, and America was still ready and raring to go, so what reason was there not to continue?

"How did this get here anyway--" England started to ask, but by then America had crossed the pesky distance between them and pulled him into his arms to do exactly as he said he was going to do. When they hit the blanket, they immediately rolled, grabbing at each other. Every gasp and hiss seemed all the louder, and America was fit to burst.

Their pants went flying and immediately he dragged himself down England's body, intent on driving him insane with every swipe of his tongue to his throat, his nipples, down to his navel to dip and tease. The other nation was back to slurring as he arched under America's fingertips.

"Feels good out here, don't it?" America teased, breathing hotly over England's still covered cock before nuzzling it with his nose. The other man was biting his lip so hard that he worried he might break the skin, so he continued, "you can be as loud as you want out here, babe, no one will hear..."

"God, shut  _up_ ," England moaned desperately, and shoved his head down. America did indeed shut up, closing his mouth around him, flatting his tongue and wetting the fabric as he sucked. He hummed and didn't stop until England's fingers were in his hair twisting insistently-- he was so cute when he was so demanding, honestly-- and pulled back just to yank the underwear off, as well as his own for good measure.

He tried to go right back down, but England ordered him to turn around so he could suck him off too. America did as he was told because he was just such a good guy, and also because England deep-throated him without even waiting for him. So there he knelt, feeling maybe more exposed than he had a few minutes ago, thrusting his hips at an awkward angle just to get more of that perfect heat and suction. Perhaps the alcohol was wearing off for him too, despite not having been too far gone in the first place, but he could forget about any pangs of embarrassment at the way England knew how to work his mouth around him,  _hot damn_. A slap to his ass reminded him that he was supposed to be doing the same, so he quickly obliged.

They groaned and slurped around each other and America shamefully came first-- he blamed it on the shitty beer, because that made the most sense at the moment. Even as he slipped out of England's mouth, he could feel his smug grin against his thigh.

"Gets you off quite a bit faster if you're out here like this, does it?" came his smarmy question that wasn't really a question. America rolled his eyes and grabbed feebly for the small packet of lube he'd remembered to bring, sliding a few fingers inside him without warning. England's answering yelp and then drawn out moan made America grin this time. He stroked and stretched and kept his lips around the head of England's cock until the other was practically keening, grabbing at his thighs.

By the time he turned around, England had his eyes clenched shut and was mouthing 'fuck me fuck me fuck me' over and over until America grabbed his legs to toss over his shoulders and do just that. They were both loud, maybe too loud, a flock of birds were disturbed nearby and flew overhead and America wanted to laugh, but he was too busy grunting like an animal himself, loose and free and  _wild_.

They ended up rolling a few more times, England on top briefly and then bouncing in his lap like he couldn't get enough. It must have been the atmosphere, the way England looked in the dark, the sheer beauty and absurdity of it all, that made everything seem that much hotter in every way, nevermind the heat. It was having England in his arms and holding onto him so desperately, sucking and kissing and  _coming_ , hard, all over him, and America followed him with a single curse, leaving the both of them spent. England fell sprawled out against his chest, kissing along his throat as America lay back down and closed his eyes.

He drifted for a few moments, listening to the night and their hearts beating in tandem.

"Am I... am I still drunk right now?" England asked suddenly.

"Probably, I think," he responded, though truthfully, America wasn't thinking much at all at that moment, not after that. Grinning, he started to roll towards him for yet another round and to flee from the stubborn itch of a wheat stalk poking through a hole in the quilt and digging into his sweaty back. That's when he realized the sky was suddenly a lot brighter, and he looked up blearily.

There, right above them, was... was... what the hell was it? A bird? A plane? No, not superman. Superman didn't carry around search beams that looked like they came right off of an aircraft carrier. And he was also sure that wasn't what he was looking at, because it wasn't the right shape, the outline of it visible against the night sky. It looked pretty cool, whatever it was. England clearly didn't think so.

"Good Christ!" he screeched, latching himself onto America's arm. It would have been really cute, except blunt nails digging into his bicep didn't feel too good. "Is it... is that..."

And then there was a loud ' _whoooosh'_ noise as a large metal door opened, like a knife through butter, and a shadowy figured appeared, framed by the very light that threatened to blind them. America stared. England clawed at him harder in terror. America blinked as it all came back to him. Then--

"Oh. Tony! Sorry we're in your parking space, I thought you weren't coming back for another week--"

" _Fucking hell._ "

The next day, America woke up back in his bed with a rather large bruise on his face from where England had slugged him, just before he'd grabbed his clothes and ran stark naked back to the house. Thankfully the other nation hadn't simply left him the next day, after America calmly explained to him that no, he hadn't planned on that happening and no, Tony really didn't give a shit about seeing anyone's naughty bits,  _especially_  not England's. There would be no probing and certainly no blackmail material emailed to the FBI. That appeased him long enough to get him into bed with him again.

America had never been so pleased, particularly when he was able to check off 'screw England in a cornfield' off his bucket list (technically it had been wheat, but fuck semantics, he wasn't changing it)-- he hadn't been kidding about wanting to do it for quite a long time.

Let it never be said America didn't have real goals.


End file.
